Carry That Weight
by Lost in Ashes
Summary: Written for a prompt: Sherlock's return to Baker Street triggers a recurrence of the eating disorder John developed as a child.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings:** This fic contains references to eating disorders, bullying, sexual harassment and assault. Tread carefully.

**Additional notes:** This fic was written for the following prompt: _John was a chubby child. He was bullied terribly in school. So, John began to lose weight. Yet, with the bullying and his parents constant comments John spirals into a cycle of binging and purging. He loses the weight. Everyone is so happy and proud. But the Binging and purging is out of control. John is sent to a rehab center and regains his control.__It's a year after Sherlock has returned from The Fall. As John and Sherlock are eating take-away, Sherlock makes an "innocent" remark about how much weight John's gained (he hasn't gained any) and how much he seems to be enjoying his meal.__The cycle begins again. Sherlock notices nothing until John collapses in their flat. __Prompters note: NO "Sherlock is traumatised/injured/etc. by his time during the fall"_

_Carry That Weight_

John watches as below him two men run down an alleyway. It's a familiar scene, although he hasn't seen it from this angle before. He seems to be floating above things, somehow, trapped in this odd haze of cloud. Still he can see quite clearly, can recognise the way Sherlock sweeps along the alley, coat flaring, effortlessly quick.

Or at least, it would be effortless, if not for the stodgy little man shackled to his arm, dragging at his momentum. John watches with a kind of helplessness as the smaller man wheezes for breath, his broad face sweating. He's too heavy, John realises with strange clarity. How hasn't he noticed before? This strange cloud seems to have given him with the ability to see things as they truly are. Were.

With that knowledge comes with a stab of fear - the men below are in terrible danger. There is a Darkness is stalking London, a terrible creature with open jaws and glowing eyes. And it's looking for Sherlock and John.

No, wrong. It doesn't want John. It wants Sherlock. It has been dreaming of feasting on those smooth slim white limbs, of ripping into firm hard flesh.

"Run faster!" John yells at his other self, who struggles forward, clutching at friend's coat for support. It's no use. The other John isn't fast enough. Those thick flabby limbs drag through the evening air as if it were water he were trying to wade through.

Sherlock's face is pale, desperate.

"Come _on_, John!"

They've reached a fence. Sherlock vaults over it with ease and then pauses.

"We're going to have to work together, Sherlock." John says.

Sherlock's face is deathly white, eyes wide with fear. "Quick, John. It's coming for me. I don't want to die."

The other John tries to haul himself other the fence, but his arms are shaking with the weight, his leaden body pulling him down into the ground.

Sherlock's face grows desperate, and he tries to pull himself out of the handcuffs, metal scraping at his wrists as he tries to free himself.

"You're too heavy, John." He whispers, and he sounds strangely childlike and vulnerable. "I'm going to die. I'm going to die."

"_Don't_." Both Johns cry out, pointlessly. But it's too late. The Darkness is already behind John. He can feel it breathing down the back of his neck. With one bound it overtakes him, leaping over the fence and falling on Sherlock. John can see paws on Sherlock's shoulders, sharp teeth ripping in to Sherlock's throat…

* * *

John wakes with a jolt. For a moment all he can think about is breathing, trying to blink away the picture of Sherlock bleeding in front of him. He looks around him. He is lying on the sofa, a duvet half draped over him. The TV is on, but muted, casting a flickering blue light over the room.

"Bad dream?" Harry appears in the doorway, wrapped in a ratty looking dressing gown. Christ, he must have woken her.

"Sorry." He mumbles.

"It's no problem. You know I'm a night owl, anyway."

It's true. Insomnia runs on the Watson family. Along with a few other, even less pleasant traits. John rubs at his forehead, breathing heavily.

"Cup of tea?" Harry suggests, a little wryly, and John knows she is wishing she could offer him something stronger. To be honest, he does too.

"That would be great."

But when Harry brings him the tea, John finds himself unable to drink it. The hand that lifts the cup to his lips feels weighted, heavy. _Disgusting _a voice seems to whisper in his ear. He shivers convulsively and lowers the cup back onto its coaster.

When he looks up Harry is staring at him.

"John."

John bites his lip. This is why he hates being around his sister. He tells himself that its because of her drinking, her indiscretion, her penchant for screwing up relationships. But, while all those things are annoying, they aren't the real reason he doesn't like to be around her. She is the only person still living who knows about his weakness. The only person who remembers. However many years have passed where John has remained healthy, eaten right, kept his weight up, Harry still looks at him with that lurking worry in her eyes as if he might sicken and collapse on her at any moment.

"I'm fine. Just less thirsty than I thought I was."

"I know that look." Harry says quietly. "You forget. I was there every meal time when you –"

John looks away, clenches his fists. He remembers it too. Sitting at that too cramped kitchen table, feeling like he was lit up with a spotlight. Everyone watching, judging every bite. Trying to choke the food down even though his mind was telling him how ugly it would make him, how gross and fat. How little he deserved to be here, sitting with the people he loved.

John bites the corner of his lip, hard. He knows that Harry is right. He's worked too hard to get better to throw it all away now. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted it. As much as he wants, right now, to go to the bathroom and make himself throw up (and, God, he wants it badly) he has to be strong. To use the techniques he learned in his rehab. To be well.

"I'm fine, Harry." His voice is tight and he forces himself to smile. "Got any biscuits?"

* * *

John does well. Or at least, that's what people tell him, in tones that mingle pity with surprise. He does everything he's supposed to do. Goes to therapy dutifully every week, reads all the recommended books about coping with bereavement. He eats three balanced meals a day, and takes long walks in the park. He goes on dates, meets his mates down the pub, talks about his experiences with Sherlock in neutral even tones. It wasn't his fault. He didn't drive Sherlock to his death. He isn't fat. He puts the bathroom scales away, in a shadowy corner at the back of the airing cupboard. He locks the door and gives Mrs Hudson the key for safekeeping.

He isn't happy. He won't ever be happy again, but he is coping.

And then, one very ordinary day, just as John has shuffled into the kitchen to make a post work cup of tea, there is a knock at the door. John blinks, surprised that he hadn't heard footsteps on the stairs, and goes to open it.

Sherlock is standing in the doorway. Tall and slim and pale faced – and alive. John blinks at him.

"John."

Sherlock looks very slightly awkward, not that an ordinary observer would notice. But John who knows Sherlock so well, can read into the slight tension in his shoulders the way his eyes dart from feature to feature on John's face.

"Hello." says John, because it seems polite and because he can't think of anything else to say.

Sherlock breathes out. "I didn't die." he says in a rush. "It was staged – a magic trick. I tried to tell you but I - well, I needed to do some things first. On my own. I hope you can understand."

John tries, he honestly does, but at this particular moment there isn't a lot that makes sense.

"I, uh," he begins and then stops. He frowns. Looks down. Sherlock's shoes. Gleaming patent leather. Slim and bright and beautiful like everything else about his friend. Alive.

"I just put the kettle on," he says, at last. Sherlock grins at him.

The next half an hour is one of the best of John's life. They sit in the kitchen and sip tea, and Sherlock tells him all about how he managed to fake his own death (it was amazing and John tells him so); how he travelled around the world under various false identities steadily unpicking the threads of Moriarty's criminal web and destroying them.

Sherlock grows animated as he talks and John watches in awe. He'd forgotten how _brilliant _Sherlock is, how the way his pale skin seems to glow with enthusiasm, the air around him snapping with that peculiar electricity his friend seems to generate. He is beautiful, slim and sharp and powerful. John could watch him all day. He could watch him forever. At last Sherlock tells John about the assassin he closed in on only to find him _in flagrante _with his own mother-in-law and John dissolves in giggles, Sherlock chucking along with him.

"Fancy a takeaway? I could murder a dhansak right now." Sherlock asks, and John nods, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

"Sounds perfect."

Sherlock picks up a phone and places their order, correctly deducing what John wants, just as he always did. John can't stop himself grinning.

Sherlock whirls around the room dramatically and collapses on the sofa.

"I am starving, John. _Starving._You really can't imagine what being on the run does for your digestion. I've been living off _airport food._"

"How horrifying." John says, with mock sympathy.

Sherlock shoots him a quelling look.

"It was a very great hardship. You couldn't possibly understand, living here with half the best restaurants in London on your doorstep - _and _our favourite Chinese down the road. I was out catching murderers while you were sitting around and getting fat on takeaways. I think you must have put on at least two stone since I last saw you."

And just like that, the glow around them dissipates. John feels something cold slide down into his stomach.

_You're so heavy, John._

No. _No_, Sherlock was joking, he was _joking_, he didn't think John was fat, or disgusting, and anyway John hasn't put on weight. Well, maybe a little. How was he to know? He'd locked the scales in the airing cupboard.

"I think I need to take a shower." Sherlock muses. "It was a long journey. Call me when the food gets here."

John nods wordlessly as Sherlock gets up and walks into the bathroom. He tries to quell the surge of panic that hits him as Sherlock closes the door.

_He's left you again _the voice in his ear hisses. _You've disappointed him. How could he want to be friends with you, looking like you do? _John grips onto the counter, tries to breathe. He can hear the sound of the shower being switched on, water running.  
_  
It wasn't Moriarty, it was you. He left to get rid of __**you**__. You're just a disgusting lump, aren't you? Boring him with your ridiculous chatter, slowing him down. How could he achieve anything worthwhile with you by his side?_

Oh Christ, he's having a panic attack. Spots of light flash in front of his eyes, and his chest aches. Sherlock can't find him like this, can't see him being so weak. John forces himself to slow his breathing rate, sucking air in though his nose and exhaling slowly though pursed lips.

_Disgusting fat little fuck._

He needs to calm down. Needs something to calm him down or God knows what Sherlock will think when he returns from his shower. After everything Sherlock's been through he doesn't need a friend who's in pieces, who can't cope. He needs a partner, a helper. John is his only friend and he needs him to be strong.

_You're so weak._

There is only one way John knows, one thing that will help him feel calm again. But he can't do it here. It's too disgusting.

John calculates. Sherlock should be in the shower another five minutes at least. He has enough time.

John slips shakily down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister. He lets himself out the back way, into the alleyway behind the bins. The stench of decaying rubbish rises to meet him.

John puts out a hand to balance himself as he learns forward. Eases two fingers down his throat. It's quicker than he remembers. The right spot is hit, his stomach clenches and then revolts, and is coughing out a flood of vomit into the gutter. He does it again. Again and again. John wants to empty himself out, to purge himself of everything he's eaten since Sherlock left.

When he's finished he crouches against the wall, breathing heavily. His head swims.

* * *

_John Watson asked me out. Can you believe it?_

_God, he's so gross. Can you imagine shagging him?_

_You should go for it, Trix. Just imagine the fun you could have. It would be like having your own trampoline._

John hadn't realised he was fat before that day. He'd known he was on the heavy side, of course, and sometimes people teased him, good natured stuff, really. He joked about it himself. He thought it fit with his persona – the laid back funny kid with a bit of chub. He knew he wasn't exactly cool, but he'd thought that people liked him, in general. He hadn't realised that they found him disgusting. Not until he made the biggest mistake of his school career and asked out one of the most popular girls in his year.

It'd seemed like it would be all right at the time. Trixie smiled at him apologetically and told him she didn't think they were right for each other, and John had left the conversation feeling pretty OK – he'd known it was a long shot, anyhow, and she'd been nice about it.

Then she told her friends. Word spread round the school like wildfire and suddenly, the laughter had increased in volume and grown shaper, more spiteful. Kids he didn't even know stopped him in the corridor to call him trampoline man, and ask him if he even knew how to find his cock through all that blubber. John tried to play it down, and laugh along with them, but that only seemed to make them more vicious. He'd broken one of the unwritten rules of teenagerdom, defied a pecking order that he hadn't realised existed – an ugly kid going after one of the pretty girls. He wouldn't be forgiven.

They started seeking him out at break times. Sometimes they would pretend to offer him food. Other times they just threw it at him. Or worse, demanded he got on his knees and begged for them for it. He didn't want to but there were a lot of them, and stronger than he was. In the changing room after PE a group of boys mobbed him, stripped his clothes off and poked at his belly. They dragged him into the loos and made him stand in front of the mirror. Grabbed at his belly and made it jiggle. Made them repeat after them. I'm Trampoline man. I'm revolting.

It was always worse if they saw him eating. The boys would sneer and hector him and the girls would pretend to retch in disgust _Look at him, stuffing food down his face. No wonder he's so big. God, he's making me feel sick._

John stopped bringing food to school. He's throw away the contents of his lunch on the walk to school, guilty, sweating, praying no one he knew would walk past and catch him with food in his hands. He passed the school days in a blurry hunger haze. The insults didn't get any fewer but they hurt less when John was like this. Lack of food had numbed him.

"You've lost weight, Johnny." His mum said, clearly pleased.

"You're looking good, son." His dad clapped him on the back. John felt warm and proud and he resolved to himself he's never let himself get any fatter. He'd stopped eating lunch or snacks. He could get cut out even more and then maybe, eventually, the kids at school would like him again.

But the hunger had begun to really hurt. He woke up at night feeling hollow and desperate. He couldn't stop himself. He went into the kitchen and grabbed what food he could, stuffing it down. A piece of bread, handfuls of raisins, half a packet of ham. He swallowed a six pack of fruit yoghurts, one after another. When he'd finished he lay on the kitchen floor, the food a lead weight on his stomach. Tears pricked his eyes. He was a failure. He'd probably put the weight back on already.

He ran to the bathroom and sobbed for a long time. How could he have been so weak? He wanted to take it back, to never have eaten any of that meal. Then he realised – he _could _take it back. It took a while, using his toothbrush, to invoke his gag reflex but when he did the food spilled out of him, into the bowl of the toilet. He stared at it a while, taking deep relieved breaths, and pulled the chain.

* * *

The next day John felt like he was walking on air. He'd found a way to eat and not get fat. To cheat and win.

"What are you smiling at, fatty?" one of the boys asked him as he walked in the school gates, but it sounded half hearted.

"You're looking good, trampoline man." The girl beside him said. "You lose some weight?" John looked at her, scanning her face for sarcasm. But she seemed sincere.

"You're right, Liz, he has." the boy said. "I hadn't noticed. Good on ya, fatty." And he clapped John on the shoulder.

* * *

John felt strong and powerful and free. He didn't need food anymore. If he ate he could easily just get rid of it. And he was becoming thin. He was becoming _good_ again. People smiled at him now, in the hallway, laughed at his jokes. They still called him trampoline man, sometimes, but the insult had lost its edge, become almost fond. It got hard to think sometimes, and sometimes it felt oddly as if he was floating along, the world around him hazy and unclear. But that didn't matter, not when he was so _happy._

And then somehow, without him noticing, things began to change. The faces around him grew pinched and worried. His mother kept pleading with him at meals to eat. John didn't want to upset her so he did as he was told, forcing the food down and going to the loo to throw it up later. His classmates grew oddly hushed and began avoiding him. One day his gym teacher took him aside to speak to him but John couldn't concentrate on what he was saying. Everything was too bright and too loud and there was something the matter with his hearing. The room seemed to be flickering oddly.

The next thing John was fully aware of was sitting in hospital listening to his mother sobbing.

"I don't know what we did wrong," she said, and the doctor hushed her.

"Adolescence is a difficult time." The doctor said. "Don't worry. Give us time and we'll set him straight."

They did as well. Pumped him full of nutrients when he wouldn't eat, found him a therapist, made a rehabilitation plan with him. He couldn't understand at first, his brain was too messed up by the stress of starvation but slowly things became clearer. And John realised he'd screwed up. Hurt the people around him. He had to get better. He owed it to everyone, to his mother, who still believed it was her fault, to his father, to Harry. So John worked at it. He worked really hard.

And now it's ruined, John realises, staring down at the puddle of sick in the alley. He tries to tell himself that it's just a minor relapse – he's had relapses before, brief, conquerable. But he knows somewhere deep in his bones. He won't be able to come back from this.

Behind him he hears the doorbell ring, and Sherlock's voice, muffled by distance, call out.

"John, get that, will you?"

John breathes in, pulls himself to his feet. He has a piece of chewing gum in his pocket. He puts it in his mouth to cover the smell of vomit. He can do this. No one has to know.

* * *

John is a little surprised by how easy it is to fool Sherlock. But then, perhaps he shouldn't be. Sherlock is on a high after his return, roaming around London with a grin on his face, dashing around crime scenes and insulting Scotland Yarders with a relish. He doesn't have the time to spend analysing John's eating habits.

John still cooks for him, naturally, and they have the usual arguments about Sherlock eating regular meals. John enjoys cooking, enjoys the smell and the texture of food in his hands all the while feeling proud at his own resistance, never taking a bite. Sherlock accepts the meals John makes without a glance, absorbed in the newpapers, or his website or the latest experiment. Sometimes he ignores the food, sometimes he takes a few absent minded bites. John feels like a worshipper making offerings to a capricious god. It makes him feel so good when Sherlock eats his food. As if with every bite Sherlock is saying _I know the sacrifices you have made and I accept them._

John knows this isn't healthy. He knows he's screwing up. But he can't shake the feeling that somehow by doing this he's earning his right to be here, in Sherlock's presence. If he ate, properly, the way they all want him to, he'd wake up the next morning to find that Sherlock had disappeared. He can't do that. He can't do that again.

Anyway, he doesn't feel ill. In fact, he feels fantastic. The colours seem brighter than they've ever been, people's faces seems kinder. When he runs after Sherlock, on the tail of some criminal or other he doesn't feel heavy. He feel like he's flying.

And whenever it becomes too much, and the dark spots begin to gather in the corners of his vision, he makes himself take a break. A sit down, a breath, a small mouthful of food (he can always throw it up later). Then he can get up again, as invincible as ever. He has taken the scales back from Mrs Hudson and weighs himself obsessively. The pounds fall off. He feels as light as a feather.

* * *

"John," Sarah's voice is soft. "Is everything OK?"

"What?"

"You seem a little - absent minded, recently. Mrs Brighouse said you forgot her prescription again."

"Oh, god." John says. "Sorry, Sarah."

She smiles at him. "I suppose I should have expected this," she says "What with Sherlock back and everything. Is he running you ragged again?"

"A bit, yeah." John says ruefully.

"Well, tell him to ease off a little. I need you functional." Sarah frowns suddenly. She's noticed something. God, what has she noticed?

"Are you absolutely sure you're all right?"

"Of course, why?"

"You look a bit – gaunt. Have you lost weight?"

"It's the exercise. Running after Sherlock again. I'm not used to it. I'd gotten all flat and flabby." He smiles at her.

"Right." John can see Sarah's eyes narrow, running up and down his body, and he feels suddenly sick. He remembers what it was like to be on the receiving end of that kind of gaze. Clinical. Assessing. Far too knowing. He wishes he's worn baggier clothes.

"I have to dash, Sarah. New case. I'll see you tomorrow."

"OK." Sarah still looks thoughtful. John forces himself to grin at her carelessly and rushes out of the office.

Outside John is forced to duck into an alley. His head is swimming, spots dancing in front of his vision. Sarah's suspicion has brought home to him what he already knew. He can't keep this up. People will notice. They'll send him back to the hospital again. And what will happen to Sherlock? He'll be alone. He won't have anyone to make sure he eats, to protect him from all the people in London who want to take a crack at him. Moriarty wasn't the only one.

He can't have Sherlock in danger again, he just can't.

He has to eat.

But John finds that he can't. It is every bit as difficult as it was in his rehab, except this time no one but John is watching, checking he eats as he should. God, when did his hands become so heavy? Everything he eats drags on his stomach like a lead weight. Brings tears of guilt and frustration to his eyes. He has to go to the toilet and throw it up again. He can't stop himself. He can't.

The exhilaration is gone. Its becoming harder and harder to drag himself out of bed in the mornings. He has to do it in stages now, pausing between sitting up and moving his feet out of bed, waiting for the room to stop spinning. He has to beg off going out with Sherlock. His fingers are too unsteady to be handling a gun. He'd probably end up shooting himself in the foot. He can't even imagine running.

* * *

John sits with a sandwich on the plate in front of him. _You can't go on like this. Eat. __**Eat**__._

"I really wish Lestrade would stop plying me with such simple cases – this last one took all of fifteen minutes to solve. They aren't even trying anymore. It's ridiculous." Sherlock says, carelessly, shrugging off his coat as he walks into the kitchen. "Still, I'm home in time for lunch. Are you going to eat that?"

"Go ahead." John mutters, hating himself. Sherlock sweeps the sandwich off his plate, pops it into his mouth. John watches him chew, watches his throat move as he swallows. God, he feels – what does he feel? Sherlock is speaking to him again, but his voice is muffled. The world around him is tilting. Water. He needs some water. John stands up, awkwardly, gripping the counter. Steps towards the sink. Why is this so difficult? His head is swimming. He reaches out to grab the edge of the sink and misses, the world flickering, sparking, then disappearing in front of his eyes. He thinks he hears someone calling his name.

* * *

John knows he is in a hospital bed before he opens his eyes. Something about the quality of the air around him, the distant sound of machines bleeping, phones ringing, nurses speaking in bored tones. And two voices, rather closer.

"-you're saying this is my fault."

"He did take your –ah– departure rather hard. And your return, I suppose."

"He seemed fine. He was _happy _to see me."

"Of course he was. But you of all people should know, Sherlock, human beings are complicated creatures. I did advise you to talk to him."

"I did talk to him. He - listened." There is a long silence. When Sherlock speaks again his voice is unsteady. "I don't know how I missed this."

"We all did, Brother. It is inadvisable to beat yourself up."

John hears Sherlock snort, and he wants to smile, but that's wrong, it's all wrong. Sherlock is unhappy, and that is his fault.

He opens his eyes. The two brothers and standing at the foot of his bed. Sherlock is standing rather closer to Mycroft than John has ever seen him do before, leaning inward as if for reassurance. Mycroft notices John first and his eyes gleam slightly, before he turns touching Sherlock on the arm.

"I'll leave the two of you to talk."

Sherlock turns, face paler than usual, to meet John's eyes. They look at each other for a moment. A look of something like fury passes over Sherlock's face before passing and leaving it blank again.

John wonders if Sherlock is going to yell at him. Actually, being on the receiving end of one of Sherlock's tirades might not be a bad thing right now. At least it would feel normal.

"You going to tell me I'm an idiot?" John asks, his voice hoarse.

Sherlock lips tighten, but he doesn't answer. Instead he turns, grabs a glass of water from the bedside table and holds it to John's mouth. John forces himself to take deep gulps. He suspects Sherlock might ram the glass down his throat if he doesn't.

When he's finished, Sherlock moves to sit beside him. He stares at John for a long moment before abruptly reaching over and grasping it in a bone crushing grip.

"No." he says softly.

"No what?"

"No, I'm not going to tell you that you're an idiot."

"Oh."

There is a long silence and Sherlock just keeps on looking at him. John shifts uncomfortably. God, his head aches.

"I guess they'll put me through rehab again." he says, because someone ought to say something.

Sherlock's tilts his head, critically passing his eyes over John. "You were fifteen years old. Bullied at school because of a barely existent weight difference, you resorted to starvation as a way to improve your image. Anorexia, bulimia, possibly laxative abuse. You were admitted to hospital once and then underwent several months of rehab. It is obvious from the way you button your shirt. Any idiot ought to have seen it."

John struggles to sit up, then gives up at the sharp stab of pain from his head. "Don't listen to Mycroft, Sherlock. It's not your fault. Like you said, I had this problem long before I met you."

There is a long silence. Sherlock tightens his fingers one by one around John's hand as if trying to crush John's bones individually.

"I won't let it happen again." he states. His tone contains more than a hint of threat.

John winces. "Don't." he said. "I know I have to eat properly – and I'll do better, I really will. Just don't force me. I can't stand it."

Sherlock glares at him. "I wouldn't be so crude. You know my methods, John."

John stifles a laugh. "You're going to deduce me back to health?"

Sherlock scowls at him. "Something like that."

John feels his smile fade. "I'm sorry."

"Don't do that." Sherlock snaps.

"Don't do what?"

"You have nothing to apologise for."

"I scared you." Its getting difficult to think again. His head feels muzzy and painful.

Sherlock glares. "This is precisely why you will never be a detective, John. You have a terrible habit of focussing on the most irrelevant details. It's sloppy thinking and I won't allow it." Sherlock leans forward, face seeming to sharpen with anger. "You, John, have been desperately ill for months and none of your supposedly perceptive friends even noticed. _That _is the salient point. _That _is what you should be worrying about. My emotional status in unimportant."

"'Tis important." John insists, and his voice is beginning to slur again. "It is to me. Sherl-" he can't seem to get his tongue around the words. His vision is blurring.

"John." Sherlock says, and his voice sounds far away again. "Don't pass out on me. John."

But John knows its too late. The world is sliding away from him rapidly shifting into darkness. As he falls away he hears a voice close in his ear. Sherlock's voice.

"I'll be here when you wake up."

END.


	2. Chapter 2

**Content Warnings: Anorexia, bulimia, discussions of suicide and depression.**

A/N: I have fudged John's treatment slightly for dramatic purposes – in real life John would be more likely to receive treatment as an outpatient, or at a specialised facility, but this worked better with the plot I had in mind. Please forgive any other research failures on my part.

Part II - Lay Down Your Sword and Shield

Chapter One

The flat is dark. The last grimy dregs of daylight seeping in through the windows are barely sufficient to show more than the outlines of the sofa, the coffee table, the TV. The air feels thick, unwelcoming. Sherlock leans back against the door. He doesn't want to be here.

The irony of that statement strikes him. During the year he had been on the run all he had dreamed about was being here again. In London, in Baker Street, his _home_. Apparently he had overlooked the most pertinent detail. He wanted to be here, but not alone.

Technically, John has only been gone 48 hours. He had frequently been away from the flat for longer than that, when he was staying over at a girlfriend's, or spending time with his sister. He'd gone on holiday to New Zealand for a fortnight and Sherlock barely noticed. Somehow John's presence had seemed to linger, in the folds of the dishcloth slung over the sink, in the dust gathering on his laptop, in the dent in his favourite cushion. Not today. Sherlock looks around the flat and he can't sense John's presence at all. All he can see as he looks around him all he can see are the echoes of his own inept actions. _You didn't notice he was ill._

Sherlock turns to snap the lights on. He has to examine the flat, in detail. He has to find out what clues he missed and ensure he will never do so again.

The bathroom is the most obvious place to start. Sherlock bends over the bowl of the toilet with his magnifying glass, noting every small variation in the texture of the ceramic. It is very clean. Far too clean. It has been scrubbed with bleach on an average of – Sherlock examines the minute scratches at the back of the bowl – twice a day for the last week. John, trying to hide the evidence of his purging. Clearly.

Sherlock stands up, a little unsteadily, and moves to the sink. He examines the contents of the cupboard. Mouthwash, a stronger brand than John's usual. Bought a fortnight ago but already almost empty. Toothbrush, undoubtedly used to stimulate John's gag reflex. Sherlock will have to analyse samples of all the pills and lotions in the rest of the cupboard, to check for anything that might have been used to harm John.

In the sitting room he finds John's copy of the latest Dan Brown novel, several pages folded over in a row. John was reading no more than a page or two at each sitting – his concentration was failing.

Sherlock moves to the kitchen. The sealant on the fridge door bears signs of frequent use – Sherlock calculates 0.45 times the amount of wear and tear that would be expected on a fridge in use this long – remarkable considering how often Sherlock and John eat out. So. John has been opening and closing the fridge door frequently, compulsively. Opening the door and looking at the food. Closing it again. Obvious.

Looking around the kitchen Sherlock is suddenly hit by the memory of all the conversations that he and John had had in this room. All the times John had urged him to eat healthy meals, reminded him of the consequences of under eating, the physical signs of malnourishment. Sherlock bites back the sudden rush of anger that over takes him because John _knew_, he knew_ in precise detail _what he was doing to himself. And still he had persisted …

No. Unhelpful. Sherlock knows John too well to think that he would have succumbed to any illness that could have been fought with own quiet bloody minded tenacity. If he hadn't managed to do so it was because he simply did not have the resources, the help at hand.

And _that_ is Sherlock's fault.

Sherlock decides to return to business. He searches the rest of the cupboards, checks purchase dates of all the food stuffs and cross references them with John's collection of receipts. Checks the bins for uneaten or half eaten food. He pauses at the kitchen counter. There is a smear of dried blood on the corner where John hit his head as he fell. Sherlock can't seem to stop himself reaching out to touch it. There is nothing it can tell him. No new data to be analysed. But still – Sherlock brushes his fingers over the stain, again and again, crumbling brown coloured blood into dust.

* * *

Time seems to move in an odd lurching fashion, large chunks of it spinning past without John noticing, and then all of a sudden grinding to a slow crawl. Possibly it has something to do with the head injury John doesn't remember getting, or perhaps it has more to do with the lack of nutrition. They try to get him to eat, and John does his best, but. He is threatened with an IV drip, and manages some soup and lemonade. It makes his stomach ache.

"Now that you're stable," a doctor tells him kindly (John doesn't feel especially stable) "we're ready to send you on. Your friend is sending a private ambulance."

Friend? John has a vision of Sherlock, eyes gleaming manically at the wheel of an ambulance. Well, it wouldn't be surprising. He did once steal – borrow – a bus.

"Ready, Dr Watson?" A sober looking man in a dark suit stands at the foot of the bed.

"Mr Holmes has booked you in to the Riverview Clinic."

Mr Holmes? Oh. Mycroft. Of course. John is starting to remember now. A conversation had taken place – sometime yesterday? Mycroft had arrived with Sherlock to offer his assistance in finding John a place in a private rehab facility. John had insisted that he didn't have the money to pay for that kind of thing, and he wouldn't take charity. This had earned him twin looks of irritated incomprehension.

"John don't be completely – "

"Please do not concern yourself." Mycroft cuts Sherlock off. "There will be no cost. The director owes me a favour."

John had tried to protest but faced with the twin battering rams of Mycroft's reason and Sherlock's angry scorn, added to the punishing pain in his head, he had crumbled. He can always pay Mycroft back, he supposes. Eventually.

"Here we are, Sir." The besuited man has wheeled John out into the car park, and helps him into the black of a sleek looking black car. "Mr Holmes thought you might prefer it to an ambulance."

"Right. Um, thoughtful." He's going to show up to this bloody place looking like a pop star with a drug problem, rather than what he actually is, a pensioned army doctor with a dodgy diet. Oh well.

The man just smiles at him and gets into the driver's seat.

* * *

Sherlock stands by the window, watching the dawn light break its way across the sky. John must be on his way to Riverview by now. Sherlock would have liked to have seen John off, but a promise is a promise. He will come when he is called.

"What do you mean _admit him to the psychiatric ward_?" Sherlock had snapped at the Doctor, the day before. "John is coming back to Baker Street, with me."

"Your friend's weight has dropped a substantial amount in a short period of time. His heart rate is still slow. He needs careful monitoring and refeeding. John's stay here would be purely voluntary of course but, well - we often find that in cases like this removing someone from the environment where they became ill can be beneficial to recovery." Something about the way the doctor said the word environment made Sherlock suspect she was mentally adding the words and the people in it.

"If John is staying then I will too."

The doctor's face took on a strained look "I don't think that's-"

"Sherlock," John said quietly from the bed. Sherlock started and turned to look at him. He hadn't realised John was awake.

"Can I talk to my friend a moment?" John looks past Sherlock at the doctor who nods briskly and leaves them alone.

"Sherlock," John says again, his voice rasping slightly. Sherlock automatically reaches for the cup of lemonade but John's face tightens, waving him off. "Sherlock, the doctor's right. I might need – a little time off from things, to work this out."

Sherlock is silent for a long moment, considering this.

"You want to stay here – in the psychiatric ward." Sherlock says slowly.

"I-" John's expression wavers slightly. "I need to be somewhere where I can – I need to get a grip on this. It isn't fair to – I mean, its best if I don't. You know."

Sherlock nodded. John's meaning was quite clear. He didn't want to remain in this hospital (how could he? The place smelt of antiseptic and the food they tried to offer him was vile.) He merely wished to recover somewhere away from Baker Street and all it embodied (away from Sherlock?). Well, Sherlock could arrange that. Or rather, Mycroft could.

"I'll make arrangements."

"Sherlock," John said. "It isn't that I don't want – I mean, you can still visit me, if you want – when you don't have a case on, or anything, you know."

Sherlock looked at him assessingly. "Of course." He said coolly. "I'll visit as often as you like."

John's face relaxes visibly and he smiles at Sherlock – a tired, worn smile, but a smile nevertheless.

"Thanks."

Something odd had tugged in Sherlock's chest at that, and he found himself reaching out to lay a hand on the top of John's head, brushing sandy hair through his fingers. For a brief moment John's eyelids fluttered shut. Then he looked up at Sherlock with a grimace.

"You should get some sleep. You've been here for hours – you've got crimes to solve, remember."

"Of course." Sherlock withdrew his fingers. "I'll be back with Mycroft later. We need to discuss your rehabilitation options."

John fell back against the pillows with a nod, obviously feeling too tired to speak for much longer. Sherlock had had a strict word with the nurse on the way out, and then strode out of the ward, pulling out his phone. He intended to have a long conversation with his brother…

Sherlock's mobile buzzes in his pocket, shocking him back into the present. He looks at the caller ID and makes a face. Mycroft.

Still, it might be about John. He picks up.

"What do you want?"

"I thought you might wish to know, Brother, that your protégé has been installed at Riverview. All reports indicate that his introduction went smoothly. One can only hope that he will make a better patient than you were."

"One can only hope the doctors there are less idiotic than they used to be." Sherlock snaps.

"I vetted them very thoroughly, Sherlock, as you know. Only the best…"

"Yes, yes." Sherlock snaps, cutting off Mycroft's stream of self congratulation. "What about visiting hours, did they mention that?"

Mycroft is silent for a moment. "Once a week," he admits eventually. "But John has to apply for them himself, you can't simply show up."

Sherlock is silent at this, digesting the news.

"Sherlock, you mustn't feel anxious if John doesn't-"

Sherlock cuts off the call.

Of _course_ John will want to see him. The only question is when. When Mycroft tries to call back Sherlock refuses to answer.

* * *

Riverview is nice, John has to admit. He has a room to himself - an ensuite actually (possibly not the best choice for a bulimic). It's nicely decorated with real pictures on the walls instead of mass produced reprints favoured by the NHS. It feels more like a genteel B &B than a mental institution. John can imagine bringing a girlfriend to a place like this, having a weekend away - taking walks in the countryside, eating at the local pub, spending long hours in bed…

Well, he won't be doing anything like that anytime soon. John looks out of his window at the grounds, trees swaying in the distant wind. He is here to get better. Right.

* * *

The first few days pass in a blur of kindly nurses, solemn looking doctors and seemingly endless medical tests. On his fifth day in clinic, after meeting with the psychiatrist, and a nutrition specialist John is pronounced well enough to attend a group support meeting for eating disorders. As he had expected, the group is largely female. There is one other bloke, a teenage boy, who appears to be in the process of being consumed by the enormous hoodie he wears. The rest of the group is young and female.

It was worse last time round, John remembers. Then his support group had been entirely made up of teenage girls – a demographic he'd been terrified enough of at that particular point in his life. He'd sat silently through so many conversations about dress sizes and curves and missed periods, trying to make himself small, invisible. Still he'd made himself talk to them in the end, and it _had_ helped. He could do it again.

"Hey," he says softly to the boy next to him.

The boy glances at him from under a curtain of hair and mumbles something. John smiles encouragingly.

"Hi. Mabel Brown." A woman next to him reaches across to shake his hand. She reminds him a little of Sherlock, he thinks, all prominent cheekbones and slanted blue eyes.

"John Watson."

"It's always weird at first," she says sympathetically.

"Yeah."

The ice is broken and the group begin talking. It's the usual talk, stuff John had privately hoped he'd never have to hear again – calories counted, measurements compared, family conflicts recounted. When it comes to his turn to speak John tries to keep it as brief as possible.

"You were in the army?" the teenage boy – whose name is Brian, John has discovered – asks him after the group is over.

"Army doctor," John says. "Yeah."

"Didn't think people like you-" the boy begins and then stops, blushing. "Sorry."

"No, that's ok." John says. "I guess you don't really expect soldiers to develop eating disorders. Or doctors, for that matter. But you know. Things happen."

"Yeah." The boy nods as if John has made a profound observation. They stand for a moment, John watches the chatting crowd, vaguely aware of the boy beside him watching closely.

"You got a girlfriend?" the boy asks abruptly.

"Nope – single at the moment. You?"

"Yeah." The boy smiles shyly, and suddenly he looks very young and vulnerable. "She's coming to visitor's day on Friday."

John smiles broadly. "Sounds like something to look forward to."

"It is. You got anyone visiting?"

John feels his smile fade slightly. "My sister." He says shortly.

John had pondered for a long time over his visitor's form. His first thought was of Sherlock, of course but – would Sherlock want to see him so soon? He would probably be busy with a case. And anyway the thought of seeing him right now made John feel oddly nervous. What must he have thought seeing John collapse like that? What must he be thinking of him now?

John looks at himself in the mirror and thinks he looks awful. Vomiting has inflamed his cheeks making him look puffed and pudgy. His colour is all wrong and his hands shake sometimes. No, its best that he waits a while before seeing Sherlock again. Put himself together a bit first. God knows, he doesn't want to frighten him.

Anyway, he does owe Harry an explanation or two. It won't be pleasant but its better to get it over with sooner rather than later.

* * *

Harry arrives late (unsurprising) and John feels his heart sink as soon as she walks in the door. You wouldn't be able to tell, he thinks, not unless you knew her well. But to John's seasoned eyes her smile is a far too broad and defiant, her too carelessly confident. She swings her handbag like she's about to try and launch it into deep space. John struggles with the urge to simply get up and walk out of the room before she has the chance to see him.

Too late.

"Johnny!" He stands as his sister bounds towards him, scooping him up in a too tight hug. John feels his breath against her cheek. White wine, he thinks, with a vodka chaser.

"Oh, Johnny. You look so thin." Harry says plaintively. John hates it when she puts on that child-voice. "My Goodness, this place is posh. Much better than that dump you were in last time. Must be nice having a doctor's salary to fall back on, eh?"

"Harry," John says through gritted teeth. "Will you keep your voice down?"

"Sorry," Harry puts a hand over her mouth in mock apology, and grins at him through her fingers.

"How many have you had?" John snaps.

"How many what?" Harry tilts her head to one side, all childlike innocence.

"Drinks, Harry. Before you came here. How many?"

Harry blinks at him for a moment or two, and after a moment the childlike expression falls away completely, replaced by something harder, sadder. "One or two. Don't worry, I'll get a taxi back."

"You _drove_ here? Christ, Harry."

"Oh, drop the self righteous act! It isn't as if _you_ can talk. Here you are again, puking up everything you eat again, after all the times you said you'd never go back to that. All the times you promised me you were fine. This is your-"

John looks away. Makes himself breathe.

Harry flops into her chair with a moan, burying her face in her hands. "I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean that."

John looks down at her, reddened eyes, trembling hands, slumped shoulders. He makes himself sit down beside her.

"No. No, you're right. I'm being a hypocrite."

Harry sniffs, and shuffles towards him, leaning her forehead on his shoulder. "You're trying to be a good big brother. And I'm being a bloody awful little sister, as usual. I just-" she swipes a hand under her eyes. "You're supposed to be the strong one, you know?"

John knows.

"Christ," she sighs. "Just look at the pair of us. What happened, John?"

John doesn't have an answer to that one. They pass the rest of her visit in silence.

* * *

Later, at dinner, John finds he can't seem to lift the fork off the plate. He can still feel his sister's breath on his neck. She'd been clean for months before this. Doing so well. What had he been thinking, asking her to visit? Of course the strain was too much. Stupid of him. Stupid. Selfish. He lets his fork fall with a clatter.

"John," one of the nurses approaches him. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. Tired." He makes to push past her. "I think I'll go to my room."

She looks at him for a long moment. For a moment he is afraid she will stop him. But she stands back and watches him go.

John goes straight into his bathroom when he gets to his room. Stands and stares at his reflection in the mirror. He feels like he's shaking, but he isn't. His hands are quite steady. This is a very bad idea. A very very bad idea and frankly, right now, he doesn't give a fuck.

There isn't a lot in his stomach to throw up, and John spends a while spitting bitter stomach acid into sink.

"Dr Watson?"

The nurse from the dining hall enters the room. John tries to remember her name. Betty? No, Bessie. "Dr Watson!"

She taps at, then pushes open the bathroom door. He stands, a little unsteadily, blinks at her defiantly.

"Oh, you poor dear." She takes his arm, guides him out of the bathroom. Brings him a glass of water.

"Sorry."

She tuts softly. "I've seen a lot worse, believe me. Now sit down, dear, deep breaths, that's right. There you are. All right?"

"All right." John leans forwards, cupping his head in his hands. He really is shaking now.

Bessie makes him sugared tea and sits with him while he drinks it. She tells him about her training, about the strange things she's seen on the wards, about the new man she's seeing and his peculiar obsession with growing prize marrows. He knows exactly what she's doing and part of him wants to resent her for it, but he can't. Its too soothing, the warm tea, and the playful chatter. He feels like a kid again, home sick from school, getting to listen in to all the adult gossip in the living room. He knows he's taking up her time, probably preventing her from seeing to more needy patients. But John wants her to stay.

"It was my sister." He says, at last, when there is a pause in the conversation. "She's drinking again. My fault."

Bessie raises her eyebrows at him. "You pour the alcohol down her throat?"

"No. But, you know. All this. The stress." He waves his hand at the room around him.

"Stress is part of life, Love. We can't help giving it sometimes, anymore than we can help getting it. Your sister, she's sick. You didn't make her that way, anymore than she made you this way."

John looks at the nurse, into her broad kindly face. He feels a little better. "Thanks."

"You should get some sleep now." She pats his hair. "Do you want me to bring you something to eat?"

"No." she frowns at him. He holds up his hands "I'll make up for it tomorrow, I promise."

"I'll order you the full English then, shall I?" she says wryly.

John grins at her.

"That's better." She smiles at him. "You have a lovely smile, you do." She pats him on the shoulder, smooths out the cover on his bed. Before she leaves, she turns to look at him, her expression serious.

"You do know that if you're having trouble you can call one of us. We'll come and sit with you. It's what we're here for. No more of this suffering on your own nonsense."

"I," says John. "Ok. Thanks."

John gets changed slowly, brushes his teeth. Climbs into bed. It's a good thing, John thinks, that he didn't ask Sherlock to visit today. He would hate for him to have witnessed something like this. It's best that he keeps himself away from other people until he is better, try and hurt as few people as possible in the process. When he's strong again he will ask Sherlock to visit. Not before.

* * *

Sherlock hunches over his laptop. It's been over a week and John still hasn't asked him to visit. What are they doing to him in that place? What if one of his enemies has found a way to infiltrate the place? Moriarty wouldn't be the only one to come up with the bright idea to use John against him. Why hasn't he heard anything?

In the absence of any interesting cases (Sherlock has told Lestrade firmly that in his current state he cannot accept anything below an 8) Sherlock has had little to distract him but his research. Sherlock clicks on a new article (**Altered Thresholds for Thermoregulatory Sweating and Vasodilation in Anorexia Nervosa**), and wonders whether it will be possible to find a method to keep track of John's core temperature and blood flow when it returns. Probably not. Still, something to bear in mind.

Sherlock clicks on a new article **Eating Disorders and Youth Culture**. _Eating disorders claim the highest mortality rate of any mental illness. Between 5-10 per cent of anorexics die within 5 years of related complications…_

Sherlock shuts the screen with a snap. His heart is thudding unpleasantly. He has heard the statistics before, of course, but he has never considered them as relevant to John. They are _not_ relevant to John. Sherlock would have noticed if John was developing complications sufficient to damage his health to such a degree that – that.

Sherlock stands and moves to the window, running a hand agitatedly through his hair. He thinks about the year he'd spent on the run, of every time he'd turned to share a smile or a laugh with John and found no one beside him. Of every observation, every comment that fell into the cold silence.

He doesn't _need_ John. He functions perfectly well without him. He can solve crimes and cook himself meals, keep body and soul together. It's just that he has a feeling that if John weren't around he wouldn't particularly want to.

It's no use. He has to find out what is going on. For the third time in a week Sherlock is going to have to phone his brother.

To his surprise and irritation his mobile starts ringing of its own accord as soon as he has it in his hands. Sherlock picks up.

"What is it?"

"Now, Sherlock. You know perfectly well that you were just about to ring me. You ought to thank me for saving you the trouble."

Sherlock swears under his breath. "Have you been putting cameras in my flat again?"

"Of course not - merely keeping a log of your internet history. I am aware of the data you have been accessing and I am cognizant of the conclusions you will have drawn."

"That there are lies, there are damn lies and then there are statistics?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft sounds wounded. "Those are _government issued_ statistics."

Sherlock makes an irritated noise. "Get to the point, Mycroft. What have you heard about John?"

"According to the reports sent to me by employees at Riverview..."

"Your spies, yes, go on."

"Dr Watson appears to be doing well. He is attending nutritional counselling, group counselling and has recently begun a course of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. He has declined the offer of joining the cookery class, but has signed up for yoga and pottery. His caloric intake is improving. He has been visited on one occasion by – Harriet Watson."

Sherlock blinks at this. _Harry_ had visited?

"All reports indicate the visit was not a success, and John spent a considerable part of the evening being monitored by the ward nurse."

"Of _course_ it wasn't a success," Sherlock spits out. "Are they imbeciles? What were they thinking allowing _her_ in?"

"He requested her presence." Mycroft has mildly. Sherlock has no answer to that.

"I don't suppose – there has been any mention of me going to see him."

Mycroft pauses for a moment. "Not as yet."

"Perhaps I should-"

"Sherlock-"

"I could go undercover as a nurse or a cleaner. He wouldn't even have to see me, I could just-"

"Believe me when I tell you that would be extremely unwise. John is being looked after. The decision to see you again must be his and his alone."

Sherlock contemplates this. "What if I wrote him a letter? That isn't too intrusive, surely? He wouldn't even have to open it if he didn't want to."

Mycroft lets out a heavy sigh. "I'll speak to his doctors."

* * *

"You've got mail, Love." Bessie approaches him in the breakfast room with a smile. John puts down his spoon a little apprehensively.

"Really?" John wonders who could have been writing him letters and hopes, selfishly, that it isn't Harry. He isn't sure he can cope with her in apology-mode right now.

Bessie hands him the envelope and John examines the handwriting on the outside – spiky untidy characters, that look as if they are trying to leap at him from the stage. Sherlock. Unmistakably. His heart thuds.

"Thanks," he tells Bessie, and waits until she moves away to rip open the envelope.

_Dear John,_

_After consulting with a vast array of mental health professionals and fat headed bureaucrats, it has been deemed appropriate for me to send you this letter. Suffice it to say that if the Russian Ambassador's security had been as zealous as Riverview's he would not be in the situation he is currently. More about that when I see you. It was an absurdly simple case, though melodramatic enough in its details that I suspect it would appeal to you. _

_Allow me to send my wishes for your continued good health. Mycroft just leaned over my shoulder to remind me to do so. (Apparently I cannot be trusted to be sufficiently sensitive in my letter writing style, and so he has taken it upon himself to monitor me.)_

_Life in Baker Street is endlessly dull as usual, and even duller without you. The neighbours complained about my violin again, and Mrs Hudson has threatened to confiscate my bow. Lestrade insists on dragging me in for the simplest and most obvious of crimes despite my explicit instructions. He enquired about you, by the way. I told him you were on holiday. Sally Donovan kept quizzing me about it. I think she suspects I have murdered you and hidden you under the floorboards. An absurd notion – if I hid a body under _our_ floorboards Mrs Hudson would be sure to notice the smell before long. _

_Mycroft points out that talk of decomposing bodies is not therapeutic. Clearly he does not know you as well as I do._

_In any case, I hope that your recovery continues and that you will return to Baker Street soon._

_Forgive the smudge above. Mycroft's censorship at work. Apparently that was insensitive._

_Regards,_

_Sherlock_

John reads the letter over three times. It leaves him with a pleasant ache in his chest. He hadn't thought Sherlock would think of him, in the midst of all those cases, still less take the time to write a letter. And he'd all but admitted that he missed John – perhaps that was a pleasant lie but – no. Sherlock didn't do white lies, not unless it was for a case, or because he wanted something. He _did_ miss John. John traces the outlines of the letters on the page.

"Well, that's put a smile on your face again." Bessie returns to collect his plate. "Good letter?"

"Definitely. In fact, I'd like to write back – is it possible to get hold of a pen and paper?"

"I'll bring some to your room."

_Dear Sherlock,_

_It's good to hear from you. Somehow, I never pictured you as the letter writing type, but I'm glad you are. I can't believe you would drop all those hints about the Russian Ambassador case and not tell me what happened! Come on, how did you solve it? You know you want to tell me, really. _

_And I've told you a thousand times, three in the morning is _not_ a good time for playing the violin. You're lucky you haven't been arrested for noise disturbance. It would like you to be the only person in the world to receive an ASBO for playing Tchaikovsky too loud._

_Thanks for lying to Lestrade for me. I don't think I could quite deal with everyone knowing about all this right now._

_I'm doing better. This place is actually pretty nice, like a posh hotel, except without any locks on the doors. Thank Mycroft for me. They run all kinds of classes additional to therapy. I'm thinking of taking up some kind of art class. There's a creative writing class, but it's been a while since I've written anything and I'm not sure I'm up for it yet. Anyway, it will be nice to do something new._

_You're right by the way – you **do** know me better than Mycroft – or any of those other people. I'm not a delicate flower that needs protecting. Whatever it was he censored, it really wasn't necessary. I know you well enough to know you have a dozen ways to get around Mycroft when you want to – which means that you don't want to. Its** you** that thinks you won't be sensitive enough, or that you need to be censored. It isn't true, Sherlock. I know it must have been weird seeing me collapse like that but I'm not made of glass. I can take whatever you have to throw at me. I wouldn't have stuck around you this long if I couldn't. _

_I'm off to group therapy now – time for more soul baring. Joy of joys. It was really nice to hear from you. Write back if you get the time?_

_Love,_

_John._

* * *

"Tell me about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes." John's new therapist asks, tilting her head to one side in a way that John knows is intending to make the question seem casual and non threatening. In their last session she had written _repressed homosexuality?_ in her notebook during one of John's longer anecdotes about his friend. It had rather dented his enjoyment in delivering the punchline. Well, John supposed, at least there _was_ a question mark. That was more than he got from most people.

"John?" the therapist prompts.

"There isn't much to say really. He solves crimes and I blog about it." _And sometimes he forgets his pants._ Probably best not to mention that part. Wouldn't allay any of those latent suspicions about his sexuality.

"He pretended to be dead, you said – for over a year."

"Yes," John says. "No. It wasn't like he did it for fun. It was the only way he could do what he did."

"Still," The therapist says lightly. "It must have been a difficult time for you."

John fidgets in his chair.

"How do you feel about that?"

"I don't know. Just glad he's back, I guess."

The therapist is silent. Clearly she is expecting something more.

"OK, it wasn't exactly easy, but like I said, I get it. He had to do what he had to do."

"There are some who say that depression is a form of anger turned inwards."

"I'm not depressed. I just have an issue."

"An issue with food."

"Yes."

"How is the eating going?"

John feels his eyes slide away. "Fine. Um, better."

It's true, to an extent. He's on solid food, and has been able to make at least a small dent in the amount of food given him each day. Hasn't tried to throw any of it up, not since that day with Harry.

"It can be a slow process."

"Yes."

"Focus on what you've achieved so far. Set your self small goals, things that are achievable."

"OK."

"And John?" John looks at the woman, who looks for a moment like she is struggling to find the right words to say something. But she simply shrugs and sits back.

"I think we've reached the end of our session. I'll see you again next week?"

"Fine." John says and makes himself smile at her.

* * *

_Dear John,_

_I have told Mycroft to piss off. You were quite correct, it was my error of judgement to think you might need protecting, not his. He was, however, quite correct to censor my previous comment – not because it would have upset you but because it was both self serving and irrelevant._

_I am pleased to hear you are making progress, and that you find Riverview congenial. I admit that my own memories of the place are far from fond, although it served its purpose, in my case. _

_And, honestly John, I hardly ever play Tchaikovsky. It was Bach's Partita in D Minor that the neighbours complained about, which only goes to prove that they are abject imbeciles, frankly. We will have to do something about your musical education when you return._

_The Russian Ambassador case is one of those stories that is best told by word of mouth. I'd hate for you to receive an inferior version, so it will have to wait._

_It's a pity that you aren't writing at the moment. Your blog entries had a lamentable tendency to romanticise the facts, but they did possess a kind of ham fisted charm. I am certain you will recover your abilities in time, however._

_Lestrade has just pulled up in a police car. Doubtless he wishes for my input on the Lambeth stabbings. More later,_

_Sherlock_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_You do realise that it doesn't no matter how transcendent a piece of music is, most people don't want to hear it at 4 am when they have work in the morning? Right?_

_Thanks for the (deeply buried) compliment about my writing. Though of course you liked my blog, it was all about you. Egomaniac. _

_And wait - I just realised. **You** were in Riverside? I'm not sure I can imagine you in a place like this. Was this about the drugs? _

_Thanks for understanding about the censorship thing. I didn't mean to get snappy about it. Though now, I really want to know what it was you said. Speaking of which, I can't believe you still haven't told me about the ambassador! Sadist. I wish I had some piece of equally juicy gossip to withhold, unfortunately in this place, the biggest news is that I managed to clear my plate at lunch._

_I actually did join the pottery class in the end, and I'm heading to my second lesson later. In the first one all I managed to do was create misshapen blobs, but hey, it's a process, apparently. Do you want some misshapen blobs for the mantelpiece?_

_Love,_

_John_

Sherlock grits his teeth as he turns John's letter over in his hands. It has been three weeks. Why hasn't John asked him to visit? He'd reacted to Sherlock's letters with apparent enthusiasm, assured Sherlock that his words were not offending him. Why, then, does he not wish to see him? _Time_, Mycroft keeps insisting, _is what John needs. _At what point exactly could time be considered to have failed at its job? At what point to they have to consider that something darker might be at work?

Sherlock sit and with slightly shaking hands begins to compose a letter back.

* * *

John crumbles his oddly lopsided attempt at a butter dish into a ball again. He might just have to admit he isn't cut out for this artistic stuff. Still, there is something oddly soothing about the squidgy texture of damp clay under his fingers, the sweet powdery smell it gives off. He hasn't done much social stuff since he's been at Riverview – he hasn't really been in the right frame of mind - but his therapist keeps telling him it will help. As social events go, pottery class is fairly non threatening - at least he has a focus, something to do with his hands.

John looks critically at him lump of clay and begins reshaping it again. He won't try to make the dish again – it clearly wasn't working. Instead he starts rolling a smaller ball, fashioning it between his fingers until it makes a face. He pinches out a pair of nostrils, traces out a pair of keen slightly slanted eyes. He gives his head a body, long and thin, with gangly legs, He twists small rolls of clay into corkscrews to make hair.

"Oh, sweet." The woman next to him leans over his shoulder. "Is that a doll?"

"Um, yeah, I guess." John shrugs, a little self consciously. For some reason he feels caught out, like he was something he shouldn't.

"I like his expression – it's like he's smirking to himself." She looks up at him. She is about his age, John thinks, a small woman with green eyes and fine, very soft looking hair. "Who is he based on?"

"What makes you think he's based on anybody?" John asks.

"You were smiling at him." The woman says, looking a little amused. "It looked like you were having a conversation."

John blushes. "Oh. Well."

"Don't worry. I always chatter away to my figurines too."

The woman waves a hand at her work, a horse with flowing mane and snarling lips emerging from a half finished clay block.

"That's amazing." John comments honestly.

The woman smiles wryly. "Well. I've been in this class a while."

"It's my flatmate – best friend, really." John finds himself admitting. "The doll, I mean."

"He looks like quite a character."

"You have no idea." John assures her.

"It's an interesting image. You should keep working on it."

"Thanks," says John. "Maybe I will."

"The name's Mary, by the way." The woman sticks out a clay coated hand and John takes it.

"John Watson."

"What are you in here for?" she asks, though something about the way her eyes flick briefly over John's body tells John she's already guessed.

"Eating disorder. You?"

"Depression. Suicide attempts." She says it absently, putting her hands back on her clay horse, as if it isn't troubling information. Perhaps it isn't, in here.

"Right." John turns back to shaping his clay, focussing on adding details to clay Sherlock's shoes. Art therapy, indeed.

* * *

_Dear John,_

_Yes, I was in Riverside before, because of drugs, what else? Mycroft was just as interfering then as he is now._

_You state that clearing your plate is news. Am I to take it that this is still a rare occurrence?_

_Apologies for the shortness of this letter. It seems I have little to say at the moment._

_Sherlock_

John bites his lip as he looks down at the letter. Something is wrong. It isn't just the brusque style – that could easily just be put down to Sherlock's, well, Sherlockness. Sherlock's handwriting is smaller than usual, and the words cut deep into the page as if Sherlock was putting far too much pressure on the page.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Is everything OK? You sound a bit off. You got a case on? Not shooting holes in the wall, are you?_

_Write back soon,_

_John._

_Dear John,_

_I confess to being somewhat surprised by your last letter. I am perfectly fine. Lestrade is bombarding me with cases. The walls are intact. (I am not sure that the same can be said for the ceiling tiles, but that is of little significance.)_

_I'd like to remind you that of the two of us, only one of us is currently confined to hospital with a potentially fatal mental illness. Please focus your attention where it is needed._

_Sherlock._

* * *

John sits and stares at the letter in his hands. _Potentially fatal mental illness_. Oh. John thinks, _oh. _He's been an idiot.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I'm really sorry I _

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I can promise you _

_Dear Sherlock_

_Please don't worry. I'm_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Looks like I've got a visitor's form going begging this Tuesday. Do you fancy popping round, if you don't have a case? I think maybe we should talk. Should have earlier really – I was being an idiot. _

_See you soon?_

_John._

_Dear John,_

_I am unaware of any recent occasion in which you have behaved like an idiot. Certainly not when compared with the average human being. However - as long as you are completely certain that that is what you want, I will be there on Tuesday. _

_Sherlock_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I'm completely certain._

_John_

A/N: The 'smudged' portion of Sherlock's letter reads: "When will you allow me to visit you? In hospital we agreed that"


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Constructive criticism is very welcome.

Sherlock pulls up in front of Riverview slowly, parking the hired car in the far corner of the car park. It's a long time since he's walked up this gravel path, through these deceptively ordered grounds. He pauses, momentarily brought short by the rush of memory: he can feel it all again, the ache of withdrawal, the shuddering nausea, the humiliation of finding himself clinging to his nurses, begging for relief…

No. He is here to see John. Focus on what is important.

"Form?" The receptionist asks him at the desk. Sherlock pulls out the crumpled form John sent him, and watches her stamp it. She doesn't examine the signature. Foolish. It would be far too easy to break into this place. Sherlock can envision eleven ways to do it already.

"Door to your left," the receptionist tells him.

Sherlock is early, so he sits and watches his fellow visitors. A teenaged girl in fish net tights, hair dyed a very implausible shade of black sits in the corner, and flicking through a magazine. Here to see a boyfriend, undoubtedly. Self harm? No, eating disorder, like John. She went to a party last night and almost got off with another boy. Couldn't go through with it, but the sense of disloyalty remains, caught in the folds of her coat, written in the loose threads of her jumper.

In the corner a middle aged couple sit, conferring quietly. Daughter, drug addiction, third time in rehab. No doubt telling themselves that this time will be the charm. Well, perhaps it will. There are only so many times a revolving door can turn. Sherlock ought to know.

Sherlock glances at the clock, the hands inching towards visiting hour. What is the correct body language to assume in these situations? The websites Sherlock had visited had been hideously unspecific. A lot of babble about supportiveness and love, very little concrete information. He glances at the other visitors in the room, but all he can read are signs of self blame and tension. Surely not what John would wish to see. He will have to improvise. Sherlock tries leaning back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. No, too closed off. Leaning forward might make him look threatening however. Perhaps if he…

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock starts, looks around. John is standing by the door looking down at him, blue eyes crinkling at the corners in that particular way they do when John is caught between hesitation and amusement.

"John!" Sherlock stands up, walks over to him. After a brief moment of hesitation, he holds out a hand, grasping John's. His fingers feel cold against Sherlock's but his grip is firm. Sherlock looks him over, taking careful inventory. He is still thinner than he ought to be, a fact not hidden by the baggy jumper he wears. The whites of his eyes are clear, not bloodshot and the steadiness of his gaze indicate an improved concentration and energy levels. He has been eating, then. His shirt is newly laundered – he's changed to greet Sherlock – hiding evidence of a purge? No. There is a tiny grey coloured smudge on the corner of his trouser pocket – clay. He had pottery class this morning, and stained his shirt, Sherlock realises, with a rising sense of relief.

John's fingers twitch in Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock lets go of him reluctantly.

"Finished scanning me, have you?" John asks. There is a defensiveness in the set of his shoulders, an unspoken question in his eyes. Ah. He wants to know what conclusions Sherlock has formed.

"Your health has improved." Sherlock declares.

John smiles, relaxing almost imperceptibly. "Come on, let's go for a walk."

They meander through the clinic gardens in silence. John walks with shoulders thrown back and face angled into the sun, apparently enjoying the sunshine, and the silence. It isn't until they reach the line of fence that separates Riverview from the world beyond that John begins to talk. He speaks haltingly about the treatment he is undergoing and, more confidently, about the other patients he has encountered. Sherlock tells John all about the Russian ambassador case, the details of which appear to delight the smaller man out of all proportion to the actual merits of the case.

They amble lazily back through the grounds until they reach the large horse chestnut tree by the miniature lake that Sherlock remembers as marking one of the best points in the grounds for sitting unobserved. He decides it is a good place to stop and arranges himself on the ground, back against the trunk. John stays standing, picking up a twig and and picking the bark off with his fingernails.

"So. As we've established, I'm doing OK. I'm sorry I didn't ask you to visit before."

"You needed time." Sherlock says, in a voice that tries to sound both wise and understanding.

John raises his eyebrows. "Mycroft told you to say that."

"No." John looks unconvinced. "I got it from a website. Very well. Why didn't you wish to see me?"

"I dunno. I guess thought it would be – unfair."

"Unfair."

"Yeah, well. You saw me, before. I wasn't in the best state. I didn't want to, you know, to drag you into all that."

This clicks in Sherlock's mind with something he had read on the support websites. "You were concerned about being a burden."

John's mouth quirks up at one corner, an uncharacteristically bitter expression. "I am anyway, aren't I? I can't seem to help it. I thought I was protecting you but all I did was make you worry."

"That's why you invited me here," Sherlock realises. "You were concerned about my state of mind." He tries to keep the disappointment out of his tone, but obviously fails, because John flinches.

"No, I – Sherlock, I wanted to see you. I always want to see you. I just didn't want you to see me when I was so... it was selfish of me. I'll - I'll do what I can to avoid making you worry."

Sherlock looks at his friend for a long moment. "You do realise you are being completely absurd, don't you?" he says coldly.

John looks at him surprised and, yes, a little hurt. Sherlock continues regardless.

"I know you have a tendency to romanticise me, but you aren't a stupid man. First, you believe exile yourself out of the fear that I will dislike the task of supporting you. You then proceed to drive yourself into a state of anxiety because you think that I might be concerned about you. John, you know me. I am a supremely selfish being. You've pointed it out yourself, multiple times. Do you honestly think that if I considered your society unpleasant, if I thought your needs were burdensome, I would continue to shoulder them? Am I so fragile that you need to torment yourself over the hypothetical concerns I might have?"

John's expression, surprisingly, softens at this. "You aren't that selfish."

"I certainly am. I have taken advantage of your friendship since the first day we met, and will most likely continue to do so. You cannot name one thing that I have ever done which even remotely qualifies as selfless."

John raises his eyebrows. "You jumped off a building to save my life."

Sherlock is momentarily rendered speechless. Of all the things for John to romanticise he hadn't expected him to pick what was undoubtedly one of the most destructive acts Sherlock had ever committed. The act that was no doubt at least partially responsible for John's relapse.

He bears his teeth in a snarl. "I considered that matter and calculated that the benefits of your continued existence outweighed the inconvenience of my fall. That is all. You owe me nothing for it, and it bears no reflection whatsoever on whatever moral character you think I possess. Why are you _smiling_?"

"You're trying to convince me that you're heartless in order to spare my feelings. It's, er. Logical."

"Oh do shut up." Sherlock snaps and John's smile widens. Sherlock rather enjoying watching the expression spreading over John's face, decides to continue work on John's entrenched idealism another day. He leans back against the tree, watching John looking out over the water.

"I'm not going to die of this." John says quietly, after a while.

Sherlock works hard at preventing the shiver that passes down his spine from being visible to his friend. He sticks his chin out, determinedly. "I know. I wouldn't allow it."

John's head is bent, he's poking at the ground with his shoe. "Sherlock – I know that you want to help. But I'm – I'm not good at this."

Sherlock nods distantly. He is aware that John finds it difficult to accept support from others. He has clearly spent years constructing a competent persona: John the high-flying medical student, John the doctor, John the soldier. An act of misdirection, protecting others from catching sight John's vulnerabilities. It was masterfully done – it had even fooled Sherlock. Well, not anymore.

"If it helps," Sherlock says. "Guilt does not motivate me, nor does any sense of obligation to others. I want to be involved in this, John. It interests me."

John huffs out a breath. "How can it?"

"_You_ interest me, John." Sherlock says softly. "Your disorders are part of you, are they not."

John is quiet for a very long time, staring down at the stick in his fingers. Sherlock wishes he could tell what he is thinking, but his face is completely blank. All of a sudden his face clears, head snapping up, his posture that of a soldier preparing for battle.

"You'll come again next week?"

"Certainly." Sherlock starts to struggle to his feet. John holds out a hand to help him up.

* * *

Mary comes to sit next to him again in pottery class. "I saw your muse yesterday, leaving the clinic," she says to him. John blinks at her. She gestures at the small clay figure in John's hands.

"Sherlock?"

"Is that his name? I liked his coat. You should make one for the figurine."

"I thought about it. Hard to balance it though. It's a heavy thing."

"I think it can be done. You could use the collar as a support for the neck – that's always a vulnerable point. Here I'll show you."

Mary reaches over and presses at the clay in John's hands, manipulating it expertly. She has thin fingers, pale and deft against the dark clay.

"There you are." There is Sherlock's distinctive raised collar and flaring train - the statue looks a hundred times more Sherlock-like with it. He can see she has fashioned it in such a way as to inconspicuously provide balance to the statue. "You'll have to work in the finer details yourself, but at least you've got the shape of it."

"You're really good at this." He says as Mary turns back to her own model. It's another horse – a pony, John guesses, head cocked to one side, one hoof raised demurely.

"You, er, like horses then?" John asks, and Mary shrugs, looking away.

"Passes the time."

"Right." John watches her at work, thin lips pressed together in concentration. "Do you, er, want to grab a cup of tea sometime?"

He isn't sure where the question came from, and Mary looks across at him suspiciously.

"I just meant – as friends, obviously. It's just, I don't know many people here, other than the support group lot and that's a bit, well."

"Depressing?" Mary ventures, and John laughs.

"A little bit."

"Alright." Mary says, with a shrug. "Sounds fun."

"Great," John beams at her.

* * *

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I know I only saw you the other day, but I thought I'd write anyway. I have to admit the better I get the more I realise how little there is to do here, outside of classes and therapy. Thinking of taking up something else, the cookery class maybe. Its one of those recommended things for people with eating issues. You learn how to avoid stuff that triggers, balance every meal, etc. Frightfully dull, I expect, but then my boredom tolerance is higher than yours._

_I think I've made a couple of friends here. This kid Brian in my eating disorder group has taken to talking to me quite a bit about the army. He's a pacifist, so we've got into quite a few, um, _lively_ debates. He writes poetry too, and yesterday he showed me some. I was expecting it to be awful, you know, teenage stuff, but it's actually not bad at all. There's a woman in my pottery class too, Mary, she's been helping me get the hang of sculpting. I went for tea in her room earlier today. She's got this fantastic collection of clay models that she's made – all horses of different breeds and in different poses. Some of them are small and sweet looking, the kind of thing you'd buy for grandmother's mantelpiece, others are a almost angry looking. There's one huge one, a stallion, rearing up on its hind legs, teeth bared, nostril's flaring. It was honestly a bit frightening to look at. Think I might have pissed her. I noticed a photograph shoved right at the back of the collection, a little girl in riding gear. I suppose it was pretty obvious from where she'd put it that she didn't want people looking at it, but like an idiot I did, and all of a sudden she went all distant and asked me to leave. I guess everyone has issues here._

_I'm building up a bit of a pottery collection myself – mostly little clay dolls. They aren't very good, all wonky and lopsided and not quite lifelike, but I can't bear to throw them away somehow. Can't help wondering if I'll be hurting them somehow._

_Therapy is still tough. I guess I just find it difficult to find things to say. All this endless personal talk – makes me long for a good rooftop chase, or a dodgy stake out in a Peckham alleyway. How is the work going? Hope you aren't getting into trouble without me._

_Love,_

_John._

* * *

_Dear John,_

_Only you would be so concerned about the feelings of statues. Still, I am glad you have found a suitable pastime. I seem to remember in a previous letter being promised something for our mantelpiece? I do need something to converse with, since you aren't here and Mrs Hudson has taken my skull again. Apparently this is retribution for the ceiling tiles. Hell hath no fury like a landlady scorched._

_It sounds like Riverview is a positive haven for artists these days. When I was there the main highlight was an alcoholic who could belch the national anthem. And me, of course._

_Naturally you do not enjoy therapy – your therapist is a moron. I could tell loose threads on your cuffs that she had made you defensive in your previous session. I am certain a better substitute could be found._

_I have a case, of sorts. A young man claims he has been falsely accused of murder. The facts are against him, and Lestrade is quite convinced of his guilt – which makes me rather less convinced. There is simply too much evidence against him – surely it cannot be that simple? Am just off to speak to the family of the accused – perhaps they can shed some light._

_Regards,_

_Sherlock_

* * *

_Dear Sherlock,_

_My therapist is not a moron. You think everyone is a moron. My mood isn't her fault - I just seem to feel defensive about everything at the moment. _

_Are you certain this young man is innocent? I hate to say it but Lestrade has to be right occasionally, and if you say there isn't any actual evidence to support his innocence…. maybe, for once, it is as simple as it seems?_

_You deserve to have your skull confiscated. Honestly, Sherlock, would it kill you to think about health and safety once in a while? Especially since I'm not there right now to put your fires out. I don't want to come out to find Baker Street burned to a crisp. Or you._

_I'm sending a visitor's form with this. See you soon?_

_John_

* * *

John is early this time. He fidgets in his chair, nervously, conscious of the clay figurine wrapped up in newspaper at his feet. Mary had insisted that he ought to show it to his 'muse' but he isn't convinced. Sherlock will probably just think it's stupid.

"John." John jumps up to see Sherlock in the doorway. He is smiling that rare Sherlock smile, the one that changes his face and makes him seem younger, more vulnerable. John gestures him over, and Sherlock takes a seat beside him. Without waiting for preliminaries he launches into a description of his latest case. They had all been wrong, apparently (this is something Sherlock evidently takes a great deal of satisfaction in). The young man was innocent; in fact the supposed victim had framed him for his own murder. It is a fascinating story and John listens spellbound.

"…And so, he couldn't resist coming out of his hiding place then. Fire is a powerful motivator."

"Brilliant." John grins.

"Well, and are you going to give me an account of how you have spent your time?" Sherlock eyes the bag under John's chair. Of course he'd noticed it. He's Sherlock fucking Holmes.

"Um, I made it in pottery class." He says, redundantly, fishing out the bag. "Its not very good, obviously, but I thought you might find it… funny, or something."

He hands it over, and Sherlock unwraps the package briskly. He pauses as he pulls the Sherlock-figure out and stares at it for a moment, head tilted to one side. For a moment the room seems very still and very quiet. Then Sherlock looks up – his mouth quirked up at one corner in what John is quite sure is an unconscious imitation of the figurine.

"It's you." John says unnecessarily.

"Yes, the resemblance is considerable," Sherlock agrees. "Although – do my eyebrows really look like that?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Well." Sherlock smiles down at the figurine. "This will certainly make an addition to our mantelpiece."

"Oh," says John "you don't actually have to –"

"However," says Sherlock, and his face grows unexpectedly sharp. "I feel he needs a companion."

John blinks. "Well. I have other Sherlock dolls. They aren't very good, but-"

"No." Sherlock snaps. "I don't need two versions of me. One is quite enough. I need someone else. A friend."

Sherlock's eyes look straight into John's, an unmistakable challenge.

"I don't know if I can-"

"Of course you can." Sherlock says, with careless arrogance. "This figurine is remarkable, you clearly have talent."

"I had help with it."

"Then get some more." Sherlock says imperiously. "I want a John for my mantelpiece. No excuses."

* * *

A/N: Apologies for the long hiatus between updates. I was Having Issues with this part of the story. Thanks for all your comments!


	4. Chapter 4

Lay Down Your Sword And Shield Part III: Most Faithful Mirror

It's too early to be awake. Outside John's window the trees are huddling in on themselves, as if trying to shield themselves from the haze of dawn light crawling across the sky. John knows how they feel. He's so exhausted that he can barely persuade his limbs to move through the night-thick air. Unfortunately his mind is horribly awake, sending panic signals through his reluctant body. John groans switches on the lamp. _Don't be an idiot_, he tells himself as his brain viciously insists on returning to enumerating everything he'd eaten the day before, informing him of the time it would take for the food to convert into fat cells and…

_Shut up, shut up, shut up._

_You could make it stop. You know you could._

_I really couldn't. Shut _up_._

He must not have closed the tap in the bathroom properly. He can hear is dripping, the sound slicing through his thoughts like a razor.

Drip, drip, drip. _How many calories in a mouthful of potato? Is it to late to get rid of it?_

_Stop, just stop, just stop._

He could find a nurse. Though, talking to him is probably the last thing any of them want to do at this hour. Maybe he'll have a shower, the hot water will relax him, be a distraction. John ignores the part of his brain telling him that going to the bathroom right now might be a dangerous idea, and struggles to his feet. He turns the heat up high on the shower, pointedly turning his back to the sink, where his toothbrush seems to sit staring at him. He waits until bathroom has filled with a comforting veil of steam before struggling out of his pyjamas. Once under the hot spray he closes his eyes and tries to think about nothing. It doesn't work.

God, he wishes he hadn't eaten so much at dinner. It had tasted so good. Diced potatoes, spinach and egg white omelette. Now it seems to lie as heavily on his stomach as a rock, pulling his attention downwards back towards his body, exactly where he doesn't want it to be. John usually tries to avoid looking at himself when he washes. Today he feels like his eyes are being pulled downwards, towards his arms, the curve of his stomach…

_I want a John for my mantelpiece._

_Why would you ask for that, Sherlock?_

John knows Sherlock likes him, appreciates his steady hands on a gun, his willing ears when they are working on a case. But John isn't anything to look at. He certainly doesn't have the kind of body that generally gets reproduced in statue form. He doesn't even take a good photograph.

Somehow John can't squash the suspicion that Sherlock would be revolted if he John were actually to produce a model of himself. _But this is hideous, John. It has no artistic merit at all._

Having the image of John before him, in an objective form, unmasked by friendship and affection, he would start to see how John for what he really was, how utterly far beneath him….

Nonsense. Sherlock had asked for a figure because he wanted one. He wasn't blind, he knew what John looked like. He _asked_ for it.

When John gets out of the shower he hesitates for a moment before rubbing away some of the condensation from the mirror. If he _is_ going to attempt this ridiculous thing he has to know what he looks like. He can't spend his life afraid of his own reflection. John stands back, heart beating and forces himself to look. It will be fine. Only….God.

It's worse than he remembers. John looks in a kind of horrified despair at the tubby little lump staring back at him. At the way his skin seems to sag off him in rolls, the swell of fat around his waist, at his stubby inflated arms, his pudgy thighs. How does anyone else even stand to look at him? How can he bear to carry on being seen like this?

All of a sudden John's leg gives a violent twinge of pain and John sinks down to sit on the edge of the bath, pulling his towel around him. _A distortion, it's just a distortion_ he tells himself, but his churning stomach doesn't seem to agree. He stares across at the gaping toilet seat. The urge to make himself throw up has all but gone. What the hell is the point anyway? John's kind of ugliness is incurable. What an idiot he was to think he could have made anything any better. With a terrible kind of clarity John can see what a terrible mess he's made of everything, how impossible it was to hope that he could do anything else. John buries his head in his hands, shuddering and waits for daylight to return.

* * *

"That isn't a happy expression." Mary comments, coming over to sit down next to him in pottery class.

John shrugs. "Not feeling inspired today." John is still feeling sluggish from his interrupted night. The crushing sense of worthlessness has left him now to be left with an odd kind of blankness, a serenity only belied by the prickle of nausea he feels when he looks down at the lump of clay beneath his fingers.

Mary looks over his shoulder at it. "That isn't your muse."

"No." John says shortly.

"Who is he, then?"

John snorts. "Supposed to be me." Mary raises an eyebrow. "My flatmate, he wants me to make one of myself."

"And you always do what he tells you?"

John smiles ruefully. "Pretty much, yeah."

There is a silence and John can feel Mary watching him.

"I think it's supposed to be a test."

"Oh? What kind of test?"

"With Sherlock? Could be anything." John evades. He takes the body of his John doll in his hands again and squashes flat, rolling it back into the featureless lump it was always supposed to be.

Mary is looking at him, eyes narrowed. "Listen," she says at last. "What do you say we skive off? Take a walk in the grounds?"

John hesitates, eyes on his shapeless lump of clay. "All right."

It's sunny today, but cold and the grounds seem almost painfully bright. John stuffs his hands in his pockets and tries to enjoy the sunlight, the itch of clay drying on his palms, the nagging guilt in his chest. _I asked you to do one thing. How could you give up so easily, John?_ Stupid. Sherlock will probably have forgotten about the figure by next week. Nothing to get upset about.

It's just that John can't, he _can't…_

"Penny for your thoughts?" Mary lays a hand on his sleeve. John starts and looks at her. He'd forgotten she was with him.

"Ah, one of _those_ days." Mary comments.

John kicks out at a tuft of grass under his feet. "Yeah."

They have reached the cluster of chestnut trees that John had walked to with Sherlock on his first visit. Mary stops to spread her coat on the ground and lowers herself onto it. She pats the space beside her and John joins her. They sit in silence for a while,

"She was my daughter." Mary says suddenly.

John turns to blink at her. "What?"

"The photograph in my room. I saw you looking."

"Oh – I – oh." John thinks about this, and Mary's use of the past tense registers. Shit.

"We were in the kitchen together one day and she just started choking. Piece of apple went down the wrong way. I tried everything I could think of, Heimlich manoeuvre, all of that. Couldn't get the bloody thing out in time."

"Jesus."

She smiles at him, sharp toothed. "Mary. But I understand the confusion."

"Yeah. That's– I'm so sorry. And – I know that isn't necessarily a helpful thing to hear either, I just – I don't know what to say."

Mary smiles at him, a very tired smile that makes the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes look deeper. "There isn't anything you can say, John."

There is a long silence. "For a long time," John says eventually. "I believed he was dead. Sherlock, that is, my - my muse. He had to pretend, it was for a case… criminal mastermind, snipers on the rooftops… you don't need to know the specifics. When he came back, I – it wasn't that I wasn't happy. But it didn't cancel out what had happened before, what I'd felt. I thought he'd killed himself in front of me."

"But he did come back." Mary sounds wistful. John feels a stab of guilt. He can't imagine how many times she must have wished for her daughter back. And here, John had exactly what she's wanted, what anybody who lost a loved one would want. And he still can't seem to cope.

"He did," John's voice cracks slightly. He clears his throat, making himself begin again. "It was brilliant, but. I couldn't seem to stop worrying that something would happen to undo it. That he'd go away again."

"I can understand that." Mary says quietly.

Suddenly John is tired. He lies back, ignoring the dampness of the soil beneath him. He lies still for a long while watching the branches above sway in the wind, hypnotically.

"My therapist thinks I must be in love with Sherlock," John says. "I talk about him so much."

"And are you?"

John turns sideways to glance at her face. There's no humour in her eyes, no knowing smile on her lips, just honest curiousity. He thinks for a moment, and turns his head back to watch the mass of green leaves shifting above him.

"Yes," he says eventually. "Though not exactly in the way that most people seem to think."

Mary nods at this and shifts slightly. John can feel her arm, warm against his.

"It's mad really," John continues. "I mean, sometimes I have to just wonder, what am I doing with my life? Most of the people I grew up with, went to Uni with, even my army mates, are married now. They've got husbands, wives, kids, a career. All I really have is my mad flatmate and my blog."

"I used to think my life would be simple," Mary said softly. "I was always such an ordinary person, it made sense that my life would follow an ordinary path. University, job, marriage, children. A straight road into the future. And I was right, in a way. I did all of those things, in exactly that order. But then Megan died, and the road just ended. And here I still was."

"I'm glad you are, though. Still here." John says, turning to look at her. She smiles sadly.

"So am I," she says. "Some of the time." He watched as she works a blade of grass loose from the soil. "I hope it isn't presumptuous of me to say it, but – I'm glad you're here as well. There aren't many people I can talk to here. It means something, that I can talk to you."

"You can talk to me any time you like," John says, honestly.

They lie in silence for a while, looking up at the shivering patchwork of sky and tree.

* * *

_Dear John,_

_I haven't heard from you for a while. How is treatment progressing? Did you manage to work on the figurine? _

_The criminals of London are being excruciatingly dull. It almost makes me miss Moriarty. At least he had a brain, even if it was entirely unhinged. _

_Mycroft visited today, to express disapproval about everyone and everything. Ended up throwing a cheese sandwich at him. _

_Honestly, John. Why is the world so idiotic?_

_Sherlock_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I know you're bored but please don't wish that man back among us. Some of us prefer not having our lives torn to shreds just because a pair of geniuses can't think of any other way to pass the time._

_Treatment is fine. Not so sure about the pottery, frankly. _

_John_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Sorry about the last letter, I've had a couple of rough nights. I know you didn't mean it. And I am sorry you're bored. It will pass – remember that. A case will come along soon. _

_John_

_P.S Throwing sandwiches at your brother is a waste of food. People are starving in Africa, you know._

_Dear John,_

_My reference to Moriarty was unfortunate. Naturally I have no real desire to reinstate him on this planet. You know I make wild statements when bored._

_I am not sure of the relevance of my cheese sandwich to the food crisis in Africa. Do you honestly think my eating a sandwich would rewrite world trade laws or improve food distribution patterns? Please try to use some logic. And please continue with the pottery – I consider it imperative that I gain that figurine._

_Ah, I spot Lestrade through the window. And from judging from his posture – yes! A serial killer. Must dash. _

_Sherlock_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I told you something would turn up._

_Visitor's form enclosed – see you soon._

_John_

* * *

Sherlock is sitting by the window when John enters, frowning out at the view. There are faint shadows under his eyes and the darkness under his jaw tells John that he hasn't shaved as assiduously as usual. Difficult case, then. Recently finished, but still hasn't caught up on sleep – or food, probably. John bites his lip – unfortunately it doesn't seem like he'll be in a position to nag Sherlock about _that_ for a long time.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock looks up, face softening as he takes in John's expression. He glances up and down and then raises his eyebrows.

"I see you've been spending more time with that pottery woman. Honestly, John – only you could enter a mental institution and come out with a _girlfriend._"

"She isn't my girlfriend, genius. We're just friends."

"Hmm." Sherlock sounds unconvinced.

"She's _married_, Sherlock." John sits down beside Sherlock with a sigh. "How was the case?"

"Hmm… oh, interesting. More challenging than it first appeared. Still, I am convinced I will have a breakthrough shortly."

"Wait.. you're still on the case? You haven't cracked it yet?"

"That's what I said." Sherlock sounds impatient.

"What are you doing here, then? You should be out there working on it."

Sherlock scowls at him. "You send me a visitor's form once a week. I am not allowing a fortnight to pass without seeing you simply because a murderer has an issue with timing."

John gapes at him. Sherlock walked away from a serial killer case midway through? For him?

"Sherlock, honestly, you don't have to…."

"I know I don't have to. I want to. Honestly, John, must we have this tiresome conversation again?"

John feels his mouth fall shut like a trap.

There is a silence in which Sherlock taps at the arm of his chair with his long fingers.

"No figurine for me, I take it?"

"I – no."

"Have you been working on it?"

John takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment.

"John?"

"No. I haven't."

There is a silence in which Sherlock stares at him, clear eyes intent. John really wishes he would look away.

" I don't think I can do it."

"Why not?"

"I– does it matter? It's just a stupid statue."

"It matters to me. I'd like to have it."

John feels a sudden rush of anger overtake him. He grips the arm of his chair hard to prevent himself from launching himself out of it.

"_Why_ exactly do you want to have it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock is looking at him with an utterly infuriating expression on his face, the condescending half smile he uses when he is waiting for John to catch up with his logic.

John can't stand it. He pushes himself up out of his chair violently. "You can be a right bastard sometimes, you know that?"

He walks out of the room and doesn't look back.

* * *

It isn't difficult to deduce which direction John will have taken. Sharp right, away from the well frequented entrance to the clinic – he won't want to be observed right now. Up the hill. John seems to gravitate towards inclines when upset. Possibly a form of self punishment, or merely a way to work off aggression. Sherlock does seem to inspire an awful lot of hill walking in John.

He eventually finds John in the herb garden. Sherlock remembers the herb garden - the Powers that Be at Riverside were in the process of building it when Sherlock was last here – they'd even asked him if he'd like to participate in the planting. Gardening soothes the savage mental disorder, apparently. Sherlock had declined vigorously.

He has to admit though, it is rather an appealing place now. The herbs, neatly arranged into geometrically shaped flowerbeds, flavoured the air with their scent, and attracting a number of quietly buzzing insects. He can understand why John has chosen this place to stop. He watches his friend's back. He can see his shoulder blades moving under his jumper as he breathes. Is he thinner than he was last time? Sherlock experiences unpleasant stabbing sensation to the stomach. Did he miscalculate?

"I know you're there." John says, without turning his head. "You might as well sit down."

Sherlock approaches tentatively, and sits beside John on the bench.

"The statue is a test." John says roughly, after a brief period of uncomfortable silence. "You know I have problems, with my body image and you want to know if I can face it, if I can cope with looking at my own image for long enough to…. Well. I can't. I'm sorry Sherlock. I failed."

Sherlock looks at John's fists which are curled tightly on his knees. _Definitely miscalculated._

"It wasn't a test." He says, carefully. "You haven't failed anything, John."

"No?" John turns to look at him, eyebrows raised. "What was it, then?"

"It was – data gathering." Sherlock says. "I needed evidence to reach a proper conclusion."

"You wanted evidence." John raises his eyebrows. "Of my mental illness."

Sherlock arranges his face in a way that he hopes looks apologetic. "In order to assist in your recovery, I have first to understand the problem. I was aware that you have a distorted view of yourself, or you wouldn't have felt the need to lose weight in the first place but I didn't know what that perception truly entailed. I am not a magician - I need information in order to draw the correct conclusions. I can't make bricks without clay."

John snorts at this – whether at the weak pun or the apparent idiocy of Sherlock's thought process Sherlock isn't sure.

"It seems - I was unaware of the level of distress this activity could cause." Sherlock says, with some difficulty. The words feel unnatural in his mouth. "I apologise."

Sherlock doesn't intend to tell John, but data gathering was not the only reason for his request. Sherlock has become aware recently of how little John figures in his own accounts of his life – his blog, as he had recently pointed out, is _all about Sherlock_, his stories about the clinic focus entirely on his patients, his creative attempts are portraits of friends. If one were to trust John's depictions of his own life one would think he was a shadow, always passing through someone else's story. Sherlock isn't sure why he finds this distressing.

"You know," John has turned to look at Sherlock, eyes scanning his face. Sherlock looks out across the herb garden and pretends not to be observing John in turn. "If you want to know what I'm thinking, you could just ask."

Sherlock draws in his breath at this, but is careful not to turn to look at him. Instead he fixes his eyes on the yellow and black creature crawling it's way inside a nearby foxglove flower.

"Will you answer?"

"I'll do my best."

Sherlock nods. "Well then." He says "How _do_ you view yourself?"

"I – I don't know." John hesitates.

"When you look in the mirror," Sherlock clarifies. "What is it you see?"

"I see-" John starts, then has to stop and take a breath. "I guess, I see what you see except – I don't. I see, I notice the – fat, on me. All the ways I bulge and sag."

Sherlock glances sideways at John. He is clenching his fists harder now, shoulders tensed.

"Sometimes, when it's bad, it can make me feel sick, physically sick, the thought of all that blubber moving on me, swaddling my body like that. You know, I'm a doctor, I've seen fat, seen what it looks like under the skin when you cut it out. And sometimes I'll picture it, what it must be like under my skin, all those fat deposits wobbling around. I think about what people must see when they see me, how ill they must feel having to interact with me."

"I see."

"I know it's stupid." John says. "Especially for someone like me."

"Why especially for someone like you?"

" Well, you know. It's not like it _matters_ if I'm not exactly gorgeous. I mean I'm a doctor. A soldier. Not a teenage girl. My dad always…"

"Yes?"

John bites his lip. "It's just, I think he was rather – disappointed, after I got sick the first time. It made him see me differently wonder if I was some sort of poof, you know, not a real man. Not that being gay makes you less of a man, of course." John says hurriedly.( Sherlock can't help but smile a little at that - John still hasn't managed to satisfy his curiousity regarding Sherlock's sexual identity, in spite of all his tentative probing. )

"He was just, you know, old fashioned. Bit of a dinosaur, really. "

"Hmmm. Did you ever resolve matters with him?"

John actually does smile at his, that broad, wry smile Sherlock secretly enjoys rather a lot. "In a way. When I got out of rehab I joined the rugby team."

"Rolling around in the mud with a bunch of other men allayed your father's fears about your sexuality?"

John laughs out loud at that. "Yeah. Mad, right?"

They sit in amused silence for a few moments.

"You don't need me to tell you that your father was an idiot." Sherlock says, after a while.

John sighs. "No,"

"Or that your perception of your own physical attractions are wildly off base."

"God," says John. "Please don't."

"Then I won't," Sherlock says quietly. He turns to look at John. The sun is setting over the far horizon, casting John's face with a ruddy glow. He needs to find a way to encourage John to express himself. John had the capacity to give more of himself away in his creative pursuits then he would consciously, and besides he appeared to find relief in it.

"There is something else I would like to ask of you." John turns to look at him, eyes creasing a little apprehensively. Doubtless he is afraid that Sherlock will ask even more personal questions. "If you would feel yourself well enough to attempt the task. Do you think you would consider trying to write again?"

John blinks at him. "You mean, like my blog entries? I thought you hated those."

"As I've told you before," Sherlock says "The rate of factual errors were appalling but the style had a certain appeal."

John snorts.

"I never told you." Sherlock says quietly. "When I was on the run, when things were being tedious or difficult and I had some spare time - I used to look at your blog. Re-read the old entries. It made the world seem a bit less dismal for a while."

John is quiet for a long time but his throat is moving as if he is swallowing hard, several times.

"I didn't know you did that," he says eventually.

"Well," Sherlock shrugs.

John turns to look at him, gaze steady. "I'll try."

"Thank you."

They sit quietly for a while, saying nothing. The insects have left the flowers now, fleeing the rapidly cooling air. The sun has almost sunk over the horizon.

"You should be going, I guess." John says, reluctantly. "Visiting hours are more than over. I'll be expected at dinner. And you have a serial killer to catch."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, not moving.

John gets to his feet. "Come on. Or the nurses will have my guts for garters."

_Garters_. Sherlock's eyes widen suddenly. He pictures his most recent crime scene again, the particular imprints on the victims wrist and neck – but that could only mean – of _course_. "John!" he cries out ecstatically. "Garters! That's brilliant, oh, that is – I need to phone Lestrade."

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts stabbing at buttons decisively. John laughs softly to himself and claps Sherlock on the shoulder.

"I'll see you later. Tell me all about it when you get the chance, yeah?"

Sherlock nods blindly and begins turning over his mental database of lingerie manufacturers in his mind. When he finally has his answer

he realises John is all the way down the hill, and approaching the yellow glowing lights of the clinic. Sherlock watches him go with a stab of pride. _My conductor of light._

In his hand his phone buzzes. Lestrade. Sherlock picks it up.

"Lestrade? I think I have our killer. How quickly can you get to Pimlico?"

* * *

_Dear Sherlock,_

_How did the garters thing go? You caught the guy yet?_

_Things are going well here. I'm back in pottery class, working on something new – a model of a cat actually. It's not really my kind of thing, but I thought Harry might like it. Something to give her when I get out of here. Actually been thinking about Harry quite a bit recently. We didn't part on the best terms. I was actually wondering – I know it's a lot to ask, but do you think you could look in on her? I'd like to know she's OK. _

_The other news is, well, I took your advice. I thought I'd write down that first case we had after you were back – the Moran one. It isn't really like a blog entry more a sort of short story. It's only a draft but I thought you might like to see it – I've enclosed it anyway. I must say, it's nice to write long hand again. Typing takes so long I forget half of what I want to write._

_Well, I've written a lot. Guess I must still be 'in the zone' – that's the kind of thing hip young writers say, or at least, Brian says that. He's really excited about me writing again. He thinks we are going to form a new arts society with Mary. He said we were 'like the Bloomsbury group, but with binge eating instead of swinging.' He is an odd kid._

_Love,_

_John_

_PS Of course it goes without saying but if you look in on Harry you'll try to be tactful? Only, I don't want her getting upset again._

_Dear John,_

_If something goes without saying why do you need to say it? _

_I visited your sister. She greeted me by shouting loud enough to be heard several streets away "Oh God it really is you, isn't it?". She then proceeded to interrogate me at great length about my career, fashion taste, sexual proclivities and, I quote, "your intentions towards my Johnny." All this, I might add, while I was still standing on her doorstep._

_Naturally I informed her that my career is blossoming, my fashion taste impeccable and my sexual proclivities considerably more orthodox than her own. (Are you aware that your sister has a foot fetish, John?). My intentions I went into considerably more detail about, but she seemed to approve of them because she gave me a long and rather damp embrace and then let me into her flat. She also made me a cup of tea (weak - tea making talent is clearly not genetic) and gave me an extensive update on her own life, the salient points being:_

_1) She is working on her alcohol addiction at a registered programme._

_2) It is hard going but she is making some progress, and has been clean for at least a fortnight (nine days, in fact, but I assume to would have been considered rude to correct her)_

_3) She adopted a cat from a shelter but it ran away_

_4) The cat was returned by a 'super cute' woman who she is meeting for a drink on Friday_

_5) The cat has run away again_

_6) She thought I looked like a tosser at first but now she thinks about it my coat suits my personality._

_7) She thinks we should all 'do lunch together or something once John is out of the nuthouse'. (John, I implore you for the love of triple homicides, do not allow that woman to cook for us.)_

_As for the case: the guy turned out to be a girl in the end - a shop assistant gone rogue. We apprehended her while she was in the process of choking her most recent would-be victim at the altar of an abandoned church. I think you would have appreciated the drama of the situation._

_I enjoyed the story you sent me ( the section about the bullet trajectories was particularly gripping) . I have written a detailed point by point critique which I shall bring to our next meeting. We should certainly discuss your use of epithets before you send it to be published._

_Warmest regards,_

_Sherlock_

_PS You would almost certainly enjoy typing more if you improved your technique. You are aware that you have more than two fingers, aren't you?_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_This is very important – possibly the most important thing I have ever told you, so listen carefully: If you ever again meet any more of my relatives please don't tell me anything about their sexual kinks. Not even in a life or death situation. I. Don't. Want. To. Know._

_Thank you for seeing Harry. It's really good to hear that she is doing OK, and that she liked you. (Although – what on earth did you tell her about your 'intentions'? Do I even want to know?) _

_And published, really? You think I could do that?_

_The garters case sounds amazing. Can't wait to see you again so you can tell me about it properly._

_John_

_Dear John,_

_Your blog still has an obsessive internet following despite the fact that you haven't updated it in over a year, and your story is infinitely better written than your blog. I imagine publishers will fall over themselves at the chance to sell it. The fact that your tales of derring-do have more marketability than a sober and reasoned account of my deductive methods is a sad indictment of our culture, and human nature in general, nevertheless it is still an improvement on 'Fifty Shades of Grey'._

_Your distress over your sister's sex life is surprising. There are several more disturbing things that I could have told you. I will, however, shield your delicate sensibilities. Though I think you underestimate the usefulness of such information. I was able to profitably blackmail Mycroft for over a year when I after I learned about his little misadventure with the rubber duck._

_As for my intentions, it's rather obvious, isn't it? I merely relayed that I intended to be your friend for as long as you wished it and to facilitate your happiness whenever it was within my power to do so. I honestly have no idea why that would make her cry._

_I too look forward to recounting the 'garters case.' Visitor's form?_

_Sherlock_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Enclosed. _

_And thank you –for everything. I hope you know that I intend the same for you._

_John._

_PS Rubber duck?_

* * *

The weekly weigh in is without doubt the worst part of John's week. The nurses are all very kind and very clinical about it, and of course John tries very hard not to allow the numbers on the scale to mean too much. Gaining weight is success, he knows, although he can't say it feels like it.

Still, at least it's over quickly. John steps off the scales and sees Bessie smile at him broadly. He's doing well. John tries to focus on the warmth of her smile and ignore the gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach.

"The doctor will see you in a moment," she tells him and John takes his seat in the corridor. He flicks through a magazine listlessly and tries as hard as he can not to think about anything.

"John?" Dr Lindhurst pokes her head round the door or her office and John follows her in.

"We've been reviewing your progress," the doctor says, when he sits down.

"Yeah?"

"We're very pleased. You are gaining weight at an appropriate speed and your counsellor says your mood scores have improved significantly."

"Oh," John says.

"How do you feel about continuing your therapy on an outpatient basis?"

John looks up, surprised."I-" he begins. Oddly, he hadn't thought of it, up until now. Going home? To Baker Street? Part of him wants that very badly but he can't help feeling a stab of anxiety in his gut. What if he gets worse again?

"You don't have to decide straight away, but give it some thought." She smiles at him.

John looks at Riverview with new eyes now, trying to imagine saying goodbye to it. It's hard to believe he has been here almost four months. His walks in the grounds take on an oddly wistful feeling, a kind of pre emptive nostalgia. However unpleasant the need to come here in the first place was, he has come to value quiet of this place, the order, the sense of control.

On the other hand the idea of being out in the world again is seductive. He is begins to feel a prickling under the skin, a tugging somewhere inside of him that makes him turn his extend his walks further and further through the grounds, towards the gates. He dreams of adrenaline and tarmac, the smell of gunpowder and rustle of crime scene tape. _Time to start living again._

* * *

Brian is the first person he tells.

"I'm leaving soon," he comments to him, offhandedly in the middle of a long and highly competitive game of scrabble.

Brian looks up at him, for a moment John recognises the struggle in his eyes – happiness for a friend's progress only comes with a rush of fear at the lack of one's own.

"It will be different without you." Is all Brian says, before ducking his head over the board and pushing some tiles into place.

"I'll be back her pretty often. Still be in therapy, you know, and some of the classes. And I'd like to visit you, if that's all right."

"Course it is." Brian smiles more naturally now. "You gotta keep on showing me your stories. I'm your fiercest critic."

"You might have some competition there," John says smiling, and thinking of Sherlock.

* * *

Mary reacts to the news with her usual air of cool acceptance, sipping her tea and nodding thoughtfully.

"I'll be back to visit a lot," he assures her.

"I know you will," to his surprise she reaches out a hand, squeezing his briefly. "Well done, John."

John doesn't exactly know what to say to that.

"It's not settled yet. I need to speak to Sherlock and arrange – everything."

Mary gives him an odd sad smile and then stands up, leaning across to kiss him on the cheek.

"I'll miss you." The soft brush of her lips against his cheek stirs something in John's that he hadn't felt for a long time, and for a brief moment he looks down at her caught by the urge to pull her closer. But the moment passes and she steps away.

"Stay in touch." She instructs him.

"I will." He promises.

* * *

The women at the eating disorder support group throw a party for him the day he leaves. Some of the nurses attend including Bessie who gives him a bone crushing hug, and of course Mary and Brian are there, standing at the edge of the group and muttering what looks like a highly cynical commentary in everything to each other over glasses of acidic tasting orange juice.

John can't help but feel a little dazed by the whole experience especially when it emerges that they have made presents for him – Mabel has made a card with inspirational quotes in calligraphy, and little Annabelle has woven a friendship bracelet. Brian has written an epic poem written on the back of an envelope ( as all the best poems are, he assures John) and Mary gives him a little clay model of a 19th century soldier, rapier drawn, sitting astride a horse.

"He's lovely," John says.

"Look a little closer." Mary says. "Look at his face."

John looks. The soldier is sandy haired with an upturned nose, and a broad smile. He _does_ look a little familiar but John can't exactly place him.

"I don't see…"

Mary smiles "Now try looking in a mirror."

_Oh._

"I thought it would be a placeholder until you make one yourself."

John looks again at the dashing figure of the soldier, smiling up at him.

"I don't know if I could ever make one so good. But, um, thank you." John says.

"Anytime, John." Mary says gently and squeezes his arm. "I think your ride is here."

John looks over to the door where Sherlock is standing, face blank in the way that means he is feeling out of place. His eyes meet John's for a moment and John sees his shoulders relax infinitesimally.

John goes over.

Sherlock's eyes scan him for a long moment before speaking. "Ready?" he asks.

"I think so." John says. He turns back to the room behind him. "Thanks for everything, guys - I'll see you soon."

His eyes linger fractionally on Brian and Mary. Then he turns to Sherlock who is watching him with an expression that anyone else would think was unconcerned.

"Let's go home."


End file.
